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Five years.
Five years living and training. Five years of dreams and aspirations.
Five years.
And all it took was one day - one day for it to crumble away.
It's funny, you never actually believe that you will be one of the ones to die, even though you knew statistically you never had much hope. You carried on with life with the arrogance that you would be one of the ones to live, that you wouldn't be part of the statistic.
But sometimes you don't need to be the one to die for your life to end.
He was never coming back.
Jean stared at the dark, blank wall opposite him, the blazing fire still glowing in his mind's eye as he had watched his comrades, his friends, burn in front of him. A burning mass of indistinguishable bones.
Which one were you Marco?
He hated it. He hated everything; the titans, the needless loss of life, this whole damn shitty world. How many were gone now? How many people had died for no reason? Just one more day, just one more day and they would've been safe and sound in the centre, in the Military Police. Just one more...
How long had he been lying there?
His anger was washed away by guilt. He should've noted his absence sooner. He should have been there - if he had maybe he could've saved him, he could've...Marco's face swam into vision, smiling that goofy smile of his, his dumb haircut wafting slightly in the breeze. His freckles making his hazel eyes glimmer as he laughed at Jean.
His tears came now, choking up his throat. He gripped the side of the bed, one had clasped over this mouth as the sobs came fast, so that he was sat there gasping, voice catching in his breath. His voice sounded too loud in the silence of the room, but he didn't care. It hurt, like he was being sucked down a dark well with no rope to pull him out. Just an endless tunnel of loss.
He'd started to imagine a life with the MP's, him and Marco. Safe and sound, plenty of food, an easy life of it. They could've shared a room. They'd both live to a decent age, together. Jean would never have admitted that was what he wanted though, pride would never have let him. There were many things he had never admitted, many things he should've said, and now it was too late. Too late to tell him how he felt...
Marco had died thinking that his feelings were unrequited.
He'd never said anything, but Jean had picked it up; the odd lingering look, more touches than were quite necessary. He'd brushed him aside, treated him like any other guy, laughed at him being "touchy feely", but now all he wanted was to curl up beneath the blanket and go back. He wanted to go back to the shitty training complex and their shared bed and Marco's reassuring weight as he slept next to him. He wanted to go back and hold him close to him, and never let go.
His body rocked as he fell into each sob, his chest heavy, face wet with tears.
Why couldn't I have been there?
The thought of Marco dying all alone filled his head and his heart shattered. His lifeless body falling limply to the ground, blood streaming, flesh torn, bones broken...just another body on the street. Just another body to be burned and forgotten about.
Jean let his body fall onto his mattress, burying his head in the pillow, clutching onto it as if it would save him, as if it would remove the pain.
Come back.
Come back.
But he was never coming back. He would never laugh with him again. Never share his meals with him again. He was never coming back.
An emptiness welled up inside of him, replacing his sorrow and guilt. If he lay there long enough he could wake up from this terrible dream.
Marco had been the best of them. The idiot had always believed in him, had thought that Jean would be a good leader, had trusted him. He had been smart and kind and selfless. If the world was fair then Jean would have been there rotting in the street and Marco would be alive.
Marco. That tall, freckly, lovable idiot.
He was never coming back.